Saxon Bennett's Blog, page 11

The Angry Ball

I am a self-confessed worry wart.  I can’t help myself.  Sometimes it turns me into an angry ball that puts the hood up on my hoodie and stares out at the word with distaste and disdain.  This was first brought to my attention (I mean I knew I was a worry wart I just didn’t realized other people knew it too) while watching the movie Identity Theft.  Melissa McCarthy’s character has just stolen Jason Bateman’s identity.  He goes to get gas and his credit card is denied.

Layce looked over at me.  I’d put my hood up and I was scowling.  I had the dog blanket wadded up in my fists.  Darla Sue stared at me intently.  She wanted her blanket back.

“What’s wrong?” Layce asked.

I was so focused on the injustice committed by one human being upon another I didn’t hear her.  “Huh?”

“You look sort of tense.”

“Why do you say that?”

Darla Sue’s blanket had been squeezed into the size of softball and would probably never be the same.

“You’ve got your hood up and you look like an angry ball.”

“I can’t stand when people do this kind of stuff.  Do you know how hard it’s going to be to fix his credit, to convince people that he is not the bad guy?  Look he’s getting arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.  Identity theft is one of my greatest fears.  I worry about it daily.”

Emma came out of her room.  “Are you watching Cube?”

“No, why?” Layce asked.

“Because she looked like that when we watched it and she kept muttering something about the evils of government and how they manipulate people and how she hates the Man.”

“The government does all these creepy things that we can’t even fathom and there’s nothing the average citizens can do about it.  It’s one of my biggest fears that I’ll get snatched unjustly and carried off to some undisclosed location and I’ll never see you guys again.”

“I think we’ll stick to comedies from now on.  Do you have any fears or anger issues with those?” Layce inquired.

“No, I’m okay if I’m laughing.  It’s hard to laugh and worry.”

Layce put another movie into the DVR.  It was Neil Simon’s Out-of-Towners.  About twenty minutes into the movie, I looked over and Layce was strangling the sofa pillow.  “Are you okay?” I asked.

“I can’t stand it,” she said.  “Things keep getting worse and worse.  Jack Lemmon lost his wallet and his shoes and they’re stuck in Central Park and they’re going to die!”  Tears actually filled her eyes.

I snapped off the TV.

“Let’s read,” I said.

“Good idea,” she said.

***

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Sixteen Candles (oops I mean 52)

Part one:

I threw another twenty-four pack of birthday candles in the shopping cart.  I did the math because I hadn’t done it the first time which was why I needed another pack of candles.

“I thought you already bought birthday candles,” Layce said as she picked up the ingredients for my birthday cake—red velvet.

“I did,” I said as I studied the picture of the cake on the box.  Who knew it would took fifty years to find the love of my life – Layce, not the cake  - and then to fall madly in love with red velvet cake—something I have never even heard of until I moved south.

“So why do we need more?  We already have two boxes of candles.  I saw them in the drawer,” Layce said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Did Emma use them for an art project?  I told her they were for your cake,” Layce said.  She glanced over at me.  I didn’t meet her eye. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I sighed.  “It’s like the hot dog bun thing.  The wieners come in packs of ten but the buns come in packs of eight which means you have to buy two packs of buns in order for everyone to have for with their wiener. Birthday candles come in packs of twenty-four.”

“I don’t understand.  What do wieners and buns have to do with candles?”

I could see I was going to have to spell it out for her.  “The birthday candles come in twenty-four packs.  I have two packs of birthday candles and in order to make 52 how many packs of candles will I need?”  It sounded like one of Emma’s math word problems.

“Oh, I see,” Layce said, as comprehension crossed her face.

Part Two:

“Ouch!” Emma said, sticking her forefinger in her mouth.  “Why didn’t you just buy two of those number candles?”

“Because,” I said, as I torched up the lighter we use to light gas grill, “It’s my birthday and I have earned every one of those candles and I want a f***ing inferno to celebrate them.”

“Maybe next year we could do the number candles,” Layce suggested.  She was using the other grill lighter.

“We’ll never get them all lit in time,” Emma said, trying to light another match.  “They’re already dripping wax on this side of the cake.

“Oh, yea of little faith,” I said, as I got the last candle going.

“Well, make a wish and blow quick,” Layce said.

I made a wish.  I wanted to be rich and famous and have big tits and blond hair.  Not really.  I wished that everyday be filled with love and happiness.  Then I blew.  I put them all out in one enormous breath.

“Damn, I still got it,” I said, strutting around the kitchen.

“Yes, you do,” Layce said, waving the cloud of smoke away from her face.

There was a terrible shrieking noise.  The smoke alarm kicked into gear.

“Wow, that’s never happened before,” I said.

“You never had 52 candles before either,” Layce said.

 

Check out my newest book!

“The funniest book of the year!” Layce Gardner

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When to Say When

We stopped to get a soda and a snack at a convenience store.  This is always a delight because we don’t do soda or junk food at the house—only on road trips.  Layce is the financial person in our group meaning she does the debit machine.  I only use cash because I am terrified of foreign debit machines—foreign meaning ones I haven’t used before.  And Emma doesn’t have a debit card yet.

The clerk asked if we wanted a bag.

“No, thanks, we’re fine,” Layce said.

I sighed and stuck my hands in my pockets.  How much longer was I going to keep silent?  Something was going to snap.

Layce glanced over at me.  I looked away.  This was going to take courage.

We gathered up our purchases and got in the car.  I had a crisis in confidence but I had to speak my mind.  “We have to have a talk,” I said.  I took a deep breath.  “I just can’t take it anymore.”  Now I had Emma’s attention.  She leaned in from the back seat.

“What’s wrong?” Layce asked.  She looked over at Emma who stared back.

I studied them.  I felt sad, but it had to be done.  I shook my head.  “My needs aren’t being met and I can’t keep living like this.”

“Are you leaving us?” Emma said.  She looked a little panicked.

“No!  Of course not.  But things have got to change.”

“What have I done?” Layce asked.  Her hands gripped the steering wheel.  She hadn’t started the car yet.  I didn’t want her driving while we were having a crisis.

“We need the bag.  The clerk always asks if you want a bag and you always say no.  You’re all cavalier like we don’t need a bag, we’re big, strong people who don’t need bags.  Well, we need the bag.  We have all these wrappers and empty soda bottles and nowhere to put them because you are always being all nah, we don’t need no stinkin’ bag.  Bags are for pussies.” I paused for dramatic effect.  “We need the bag.”

They stared at me.  Christ-on-bike, it wasn’t like I was asking for the Second Coming.  I just wanted a bag to put the trash in.  “I just can’t handle having unrestrained trash in the car.  It that too much to ask?  I need containment.”

“Okay,” they said in tandem.  Emma leapt out of the car.

“Where are you going?” I yelled.

“To get a bag,” she said.

“You scared me,” Layce said.  “I thought it was something really big.”

“It is big.”

“Well, of course, it’s big.  I mean unrestrained trash is a serious global concern and I’m glad you brought it to our attention as a family.”

Emma got back in the car.  “I got two.  One for now and a back-up bag in case of emergency like the store is out of bags or something.”

“Good thinking.”  I opened my dark chocolate Milky Way and put the wrapper in the bag.  I sighed happily.  It was good thing to know when to say when—to air your grievances and give solace to your soul.

“We can go now,” I said, beatifically.  I leaned back and smiled the smile of the victorious.  It was the little things.  They did care and I loved them for it.  With a family like this I could conquer my world.

A sweet & steamy short story

by

Saxon Bennett and Layce Gardner

Available for only .99 cents at Amazon and Smashwords

Squeezing Lemons

“I don’t want to look at any more cows. I mean it,” I whined and looked out the window morosely.

“Just chill,” Layce said.

“Don’t drive so fast. You might miss a turn off,” I said. I eyed the horizon looking for a green sign to tell us we can turn around and go home.

“We’re six miles into this. We’re going to Coweta.”

Layce and I had finished our bike ride on the Centennial Trail in Muskogee. We got in the car intent on heading home and somehow we missed the turn off and now we’re headed I don’t know where.

“Where’s Coweta?” I asked.

“It’s Co/wee/ta. Not Co/we/ta.”

“I’m a non-native speaker. I’m allowed to mispronounce names of towns in the middle of all these cows.”

“I’ve said it three times now,” Layce said.

“Whatever.”

We got onto a turn pike. “Oh, my God, we don’t have the Pike pass. Do you have a quarter?”

“Yes,” Layce said calmly.

“What would we do if we didn’t have a quarter?” I asked.

“We’d have to make a run for it.”

“But they have cameras. We’d get a ticket. Are you sure there isn’t a turn off somewhere around here?” I asked. I was getting a bad feeling about this Coweta thing.

Layce gave me a handful of coins. “Why don’t you look through this change and see if there’s any quarters minted before 1967. You can sell them on eBay because they contain real silver.”

I recalled a story about how Layce threw a jar of change out in the backyard and told Emma if she found it all she could keep it. Layce hadn’t counted what was in the so every time Emma brought the money to her Layce would claim there was more. I was getting that same vibe.

We passed the Big Red Barn antique store that also sold soup and sandwiches. “Let’s go look at stuff and get something to eat,” Layce said.

“Okay. Do you know where we are?”

“Of course, we’re near Wagner and Proctor and Tulsa.”

“For sure?” I studied her face for any signs of recalcitrance. I didn’t see any.

We sit down to lunch and have fabulous potato soup and a chicken salad sandwich. I feel at one with the Universe.

“See, this is a make lemonade moment,” Layce said.

“I feel more like I was the squeezed lemon.” My eyes go wide. “Oh, my God, I’m tainted. I touched all those coins and I didn’t wash my hands before I ate.”

“I left the car window open and it rained on them. I’d consider that clean. No one has touched them in a while. I think you’ll be all right.”

“You left the car window open? Do you know how much damage that can do to the interior mechanics of a car door?”

Layce dug in her pocket and came out with a bunch of change. She tossed the coins into the center of the dining room floor. “You go find it, it’s yours,” she said.

I scrambled. This was another make lemonade moment.

Mystically Caving

Last weekend Layce, Emma and I went on another one of our excellent family adventures. We went to Harrison, Arkansas to see the Mystic Caves—a series of caves containing stalagmites and stalactites.

I reviewed all pertinent information about the caves on their website. I realized as I looked at ticket prices that Emma is now 13 so she’s an adult and has to pay full price. There was however a printable three dollar off coupon. This would offset the increase. I ran upstairs to my office to print the coupon.

Layce stared at me as I entered the room. My office is part of the master suite which takes up the entire second floor—it’s an open floor plan and the bathroom is part of the flow.

“You can’t be up here,” Layce said.

“But I need to run off the coupon. It’ll just take a minute.”

“I don’t have a minute. You need to leave, right now.”

“But we have to pay full price for Emma. This will offset the additional expenditure.”

“Go.”

I left but the poop window had closed. I would find this out later.

The cave tour was guided. We trundled down several flights of stairs and saw these amazing rock formations. There were stalactites and mites and ripples and pearls. Emma and I were fascinated. I glanced over at Layce who was intently studying the ceiling.

Then the Orphans of Africa Choir were asked to sing. The orphans were on the tour as well. There was one little girl who kept trying to climb back out of the cave but was always brought back around. I began to wonder if she knew something I didn’t. The singing started and the cave acoustics were astounding. Layce was still staring at the ceiling.

The song came to a high pitched crescendo. A piece of rock fell from the ceiling and clattered to the floor of the cave.

The guy standing next to me said, “What are the chances of a Ugandan Choir singing the OU Boomer Sooner fight song.”

The guide asked if there were any questions. I felt that the guide had been very informative, right down to explaining how difficult it is to change the light bulbs. And I thought the impromptu singing was an additional bonus—I had after all paid full price for Emma’s ticket. I glanced over to see Layce raise her hand.

“Yes?” the guide inquired.

“So what exactly is holding the ceiling up? You said that this cave was made out of a giant sink hole so what’s preventing it exactly from doing it again while we’re standing here. I mean can’t things like sound vibrations trigger the sinking thing?”

Everyone, including the orphans, stared up at the ceiling. There weren’t any beams or steel rods or anything and we were seventy feet underground and there were, according to the brochure, one hundred steps from cave bottom to the exit door. The little rogue orphan girl took one look up and ran up the stairs at full speed. This set off a chain reaction and everybody ran for the exit like it was the running of the bulls.

“What was holding the ceiling up?” I asked the guide once we were safely above ground.

“The cave holds the cave up,” he said blithely. “We have a wonderful gift shop.”

Caving was hard work and we were hungry. We went to the Townsender Café. The food was good and we beat the evening meal rush. There was going to be an Elvis impersonator at the little theater next door which is why the Townsender was packed by the time we finished eating.

Per any excellent adventure I adhere to the rule that one should never pass up a restroom. Emma came with me. I opened the door to the women’s restroom and a voice screeched, “I’m in here!”

“Okay, sorry about that, “I said, hurriedly shutting the door. I turned to Emma who looked alarmed.

“That was the town crazy lady,” Emma said.

“How do you know that?”

“I saw her at her table. She kept looking through her water glass at everybody like it was a crystal ball and she was casting spells.”

I added, “And she doesn’t lock bathroom doors. I suppose she thought I was wearing my infra red goggles and should have sensed her body heat so I knew she was in there.”

The crazy lady glared at us as she exited. I took my turn and left Emma, telling her to lock the door. She rolled her eyes.

I found Layce at the front door talking to Mr. Townsender. He was telling her about how later on the café would open the back deck for drinks and live music after Elvis had left the building. We should stay he said. Between the earring and the madras shirt I had a pretty good suspicion he was PLU (People like Us) and he thought the same of us.

Layce sighed. “We can’t stay.”

I figured she was going to tell him we had Emma and she was underage. I wasn’t expecting what she did say.

“See, we’re introverts. We don’t drink and I haven’t pooped yet today. So I think we’ll just mosey on home now.”

Mr. Townsender cleared his throat. He seemed at a loss.

I saved him. “The food was great. It’s a real nice town.”

“Yes, well, you all have a nice evening,” he said, giving Layce a look that might have said and “I hope you poop soon.” He moved across the room and his brown afro caught a breeze from the open door and his hair fanned out on the sides.

“He kind of looks like an irate cobra when his hair does that,” I said.

“I was thinking he could give the standard poodles a run for their money in the Westminister Dog Show,” Layce replied.

Emma joined us. “Don’t look now, but the Crazy Lady has us under surveillance.” I furtively glanced over and saw a giant eye looking at me through a water glass.

“I think it’s time we hit the road,” I said. “These little towns are nice but they have their issues.”

“We live in a little town,” Emma said.

“Yes, but we understand our issues and your mother’s poop portal only works on home soil. So we best get going.”

“You better not write a blog about this,” Layce said.

“I won’t,” I said, crossing my fingers.

Learning Curve Balls

Finding one’s dharma can be a torturous journey—one fraught with perils and disappointments. Luckily, at age eleven I read Harriet the Spy and started taking notes. Eventually, I found my dharma and its tools—namely pencil and paper. This did not stop me from exploring other options. Here are my failed attempts fraught with perils and disappointment.

Age 6 Baker’s Apprentice

My mother and I made a chocolate cake. The putting together of the ingredients went well. I turned on the mixer on and stuck it into the cake batter. It got away from me and next thing we knew the entire kitchen including the Baker’s apprentice was covered in chocolate cake mix. It looked like a CSI blood spatter pattern.

Age 12 Fashion Designer/ Seamstress

I sewed my first pair of culottes. I was going to make a fashion statement, “Are they pants or are they a skirt? They’re both!” I chose a dashing leopard print. I finished the sewing, turned off the machine and tried on my creation. I felt so accomplished until I discovered I’d sewed the pockets on the outside of the culottes. My culottes looked like they had oversized ears.

Age 19 Writer-in-progress

I wrote my first book. I thought it was a masterpiece. I called it Ticonderoga Blues. I pasted all my rejection slips on the bathroom wall so I could look at them while defecating. Then I went back to college to get my English degree and learn about commas.

Age 22 Furniture Maker

I was in college. I didn’t have a dresser and the apartment I rented had little to no closet space. I decided I’d build a set of shelves that would fit all my clothes. I went to the lumber yard and got the wood and began my project. I got the shelf together only to discover that it wouldn’t fit through the bedroom door and it was too tall for the room itself. Somehow, I’d built the Eiffel tower without realizing. I cut the shelf in half and finally got it into the bedroom. And the second half became a kitchen counter/ironing board.

Age 26 Auto Mechanic

In grad school I had a Volkswagen Rabbit that I named the BBOW—beige box on wheels. She wasn’t much to look at but she ran forever. During a period of serious financial scarcity the BBOW’s muffler went. I crawled under the car and surveyed the damage. It was just a small hole about the size of a golf ball. It seemed silly that the whole pipe needed to be replaced. I went to the hardware store and bought a piece of flashing and two clamps. I crawled back under the BBOW and wrapped the flashing around the hole and clamped it. Insta-Muff fix! I can only imagine what the mechanic at the car lot thought when I traded her in.

Age 31 Writer-almost-published

I wrote another book called Never say Never. I thought it portentous at the time and sent it to Barbara Grier at Naiad Press. She called back to say I wrote like an over-sexed eighth grader. I cried. She told me to keep writing.

Age 33 Published writer!

I send Naiad another book query. Barbara Grier called again. This time she liked my book The Wish List. She told me to take a walk, make love to my girlfriend and cut twenty pages.

Age 42 Interior Design

I bought a fixer-upper house that needed the entire inside painted. I was into Martha Stewart at the time. I decided that color was my friend. I went to Home Depot and Lowes and brought home color swatches. I taped them to the wall and studied them for weeks. At one point there were more color swatches than walls. I finally made my decision. Mustard for the Den. Peach for the kitchen. Green and yellow for the front room. Friends came. The painting started. All went well. Until at the end of the weekend and after a few beers the critique began. The consensus was I had just painted my house to look like Pee Wee’s Playhouse. I re-painted everything beige and cancelled my subscription to Martha Stewart’s Living magazine.

Age 51 Happy Camper

I found the love of my life and become a parent. I still love to write and do it each and every morning without fail even on vacation and weekends–just an hour a day. I’ve come to understand that dharma isn’t always what you do – sometimes it’s who you are: The lover, the parent and the writer –and that makes me a happy camper who eventually found her dharma.

Dump diddy dump dump dump-

Layce and I are both big into decluttering our lives which entails getting rid of things that have served their purpose but have exceeded their expiration dates.  If we cannot donate or recycle the thing, it goes to the dump.  We gathered our un-useables and made our way to the refuse station.

This was my first experience of going to the city dump in Tahlequah.  We pulled up to pay.

“That’ll be ten dollars,” the Refuse Facilitator said.  It’s politically incorrect to call him the “Dump Guy.”

“So how long until we can get in?” Layce said.

“A lil bit, I expect,” the Dump Guy, I mean the Refuse Facilitator, said.

“Like five or ten minutes?” I said.  Being a foreigner to the South the “lil bit” thing always throws me.  It’s like a recipe of time—a pinch of this, a dash of that.  What does it mean exactly?

The Dump Guy screwed up his mouth and gazed off into the distance.

“Twenty minutes?” Layce prodded.

He hemmed and hawed (they really do that here) and said, “I reckon when that truck finishes unloading.”

I sighed in exasperation.  We’d gone from the inexactitude of a “lil bit” to the complete arbitrariness of “when it’s done.”  Apparently pinning down a Southern man to any approximation of time was an unattainable and unrealistic goal.

We went back to the truck and sat.

“So how does this ‘dump thing’ work anyhow?” I asked, eyeing the truck that was unloading its contents into a large covered building that was a “lil bit” smaller than an airplane hanger.

“We drive in there and unload,” Layce said.

“So all the trash is in there?” I looked at the entrance to the building suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“Inside there,” I said, pointing to the entrance.

“Yes.”  Layce didn’t met my gaze.

“So it’s like a House of Trash?”

“Yes.”

“All the diapers, rotten food, old mattresses, paint cans, discarded shoes, pizza boxes, refuse of an undetermined origin…” I would’ve continued listing items, my voice getting ever higher and squeaky.

“Yes, that’s why they call it the dump.”

The truck departs after eight minutes.  Apparently, a “lil bit” is under ten minutes.  I made a note to self.

We drive in.  The reek of garbage is a full on D-Day assault of the olfactory system.  There is trash everywhere.  It’s like the bowels of Hell.  It’s the most disgusting place I’ve ever been.  I open the truck door.  The floor is oily.

“I should’ve worn different shoes.”

“You’ll be fine,” Layce said.

“This place is horrendous,” I said, stepping out of the truck carefully.  I prayed I wouldn’t slip and fall because if I did I would never recover.  They’d have to put me in a rubber room where I would scream about garbage monsters coming to get me.

We unloaded the truck as quickly as possible.  I tried not to look at anything and made myself think of an Elysian field with a nice tidy red poppy border.  I jumped in the truck and took my first real breath.  “My God, Dante should’ve had an eighth ring of Hell—the Dump.  We exited and headed toward home.

I sniffed.  The inside of the truck smelled like the dump.  I gave my shirt a sniff.  It was still sporting its fabric softener smell.  I glanced down and screamed, “It’s on our shoes!”

“Just calm down,” Layce said.

“And now it’s on the floor mats.”

“It’ll go away.”

“No it won’t.  Stuff like this LINGERS,” I said.  “We have to go wash the truck and the floor mats, right this instant.”

We washed the truck and floor mats.

I sanitized our shoes

I put my clothes in quarantine.

I prayed I wouldn’t have nightmare where giant chunks of garbage encircled me saying “Dump diddy dump dump dump.”

Needless to say I won’t be returning because I ‘m suffering Post Traumatic Dump Syndrome.

The Room

Layce and I were standing in the kitchen.  “How’s The Room?” I asked.  Emma’s room has a complete identity of its own—like Pluto when it was a planet and not a…what is it now?  We don’t say Emma’s room.   We refer to it as The Room and we all know what we’re talking about.

“It’s okay,” Layce replied.  “All her clothes are on the floor, but she is redoing her dresser so I’m giving her a pass. Besides my mother claims I threw my clothes on the floor.  We probably all did as teenagers.”

I glanced over at her while I lined up the cans in the pantry so that all the labels faced outward.  “I didn’t.  Dirty clothes went in my hamper, clean clothes in my dresser and the outfit for the next day on my chair in order of how I was going to put them on.”

“What?” Layce said.

“You know—pants on the bottom, shirt, then underpants, then socks—the order in which I would get dressed.”

“You still do that.”

“Good habits start early,” I said.

“Did your mother think you were weird?”

“She still does.  It makes her nervous when I come home for a visit.  She hires a house cleaner to come in and do up the guest room and clean out the fridge so no expired food will accidentally make it to the dinner table.  She hasn’t lived down the ten year old salad dressing.  The fridge is a biohazard until I come home.  And when I get there she tells me not to look at the basement because one time I had a panic attack.  I do go into the laundry room and clean out the dryer vent so at least it gets done once a year.  I don’t want them to die in a fire.”

Emma came in. She was in the process of cleaning The Room so she could go skating—the rule being The Room must be clean before she is allowed to leave the house. “So your room was never messy?” she asked.   She was precariously balancing three cereal bowls, four plates, seven glasses and most of our cutlery.  I’d been looking for a butter knife for the last two days.

“Not only was my room clean, I dusted it.” I said.  I put my hand on my hip in a “top that” gesture.

“I didn’t get to eat in my room either,” Layce said, eyeing the dishware.

“I did occasionally serve a cheese and meat platter to my friends, but I always returned the dishware promptly,” I admitted.

Emma rolled her eyes and rummaged around in the fridge.

“What are looking for?” Layce asked.

“I’m checking expiration dates,” Emma said, her head deep in the caverns of the fridge.  “Did you know this ranch dressing is going off in three days?”

Layce glared at me.

“I think we may lose the battle sometimes, but I am convinced we will win the war,” I said, beaming.

Flying is Fun

“What do you mean you can’t find our reservation?” I asked, trying to keep the panic out of my voice which is prone to sounding like I sucked on helium with the slightest provocation.  I tried deep breathing.  Emma sidled up beside me, giving me the is-everything-all-right look.  Her mother looked pale and decidedly distracted.

“Well, when they cancelled your flight the entire itinerary was dropped,” said the reservations clerk who miraculously still looked calm and composed while all hell and the second coming were being postponed due to bad weather.

“Oh,” I said, nonchalantly, like this was no different than receiving a cappuccino instead of a latte—oh, that’s okay, what’s a little steamed milk.  “So what can we do about it?” I said.  “I mean, we do still get to go, right?”

The reservations clerk didn’t look up from the screen and didn’t answer my question immediately.  “I’ll see what I can do,” she finally answered, biting her lip.  This did not fill me with confidence.  We had a rental car reservation waiting, a cabin rental, a tornado whipping about every airport we needed to fly in or out of and Layce was not looking good.

“Well, that’d be great,” I said, trying to keep my voice three octaves lower than Alvin the Chipmunk.

Em stared at me.  “Are we still going?”

“Sure,” I said, my voice laced with false bravado.  “But see that line behind us?”

She nodded.  The entire line was relegated to one other reservation clerk because we had completely co-opted the other.  The people in line were growing restless and shot viperous glances.  I felt compelled to say “I’m innocent.  This muck up is not my fault.  I am victim,” but I didn’t.

Instead, I turned my back on them.  “This is why you always get to the airport early because if we were at the end of that line and were having the kind of issue we’re having we wouldn’t be going to Alaska.”  My eyes bored deep into hers.  This was a valuable travel lesson and I wanted her to know it.  “Now, stay here.  I need to talk to your mother.”

She nodded, seemingly understanding that our future depended on keeping our place in front of the line.

I sidled up to Layce who was standing off to one side.  “What’s wrong?” I knew this was a stupid question, like what d’ya mean we don’t have a flight reservation wasn’t a problem.

“I’m wet,” she replied.

I stared up at the ceiling, no leak.  I looked at the floor.  I looked at the front of her shirt to see if she’d spilled something on it until I remembered the airport “No liquids” rule.  “What d’ya mean you’re wet?”

“My butt is sweating.”

I didn’t know how to respond exactly so when in doubt I go for research.  “Like how wet?  A little lady like glow because it’s hot in here or…”

“Like a rainforest and I need to go to the bathroom and wring out my panties,” she said, wiggling slightly.

I got out my phone and googled involuntary butt sweating.  “It’s a bonafide manifestation of an anxiety attack according to the website,” I told her.

“Great.  What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Are you wearing cotton socks?” I asked.

“I think so,” she replied, staring at her feet.

“You should be okay then.”

“Why?”

“They’ll absorb the excess water that will soon be running down your legs.  You won’t leak out onto the floor which could definitely prove a safety hazard.  I’ve never understood the flooring philosophy of airports.”

“I found you a flight,” the reservation clerk called out.

I leapt for the counter.  “Really?”

“It leaves in five hours and will put you in Anchorage at 1:30,” she said, smiling brightly.

“One-thirty in the morning?” I asked.  We were going to arrive at 8:37 P.M. and I thought we’d grab some dinner and go to bed at a reasonable hour.

“Yes, and you can all sit together,” she said, printing out boarding passes.

I did the math.  We left Tahlequah at 9:30 in the morning and we’d arrive at our destination at 1:30 in the morning which meant we’d be travelling for 16 hours.  We could have flown across the Atlantic twice.

“Well, that’s grand, thank you so much for your help,” I said, gathering up the passes.  Em helped me get the luggage as Layce wheeled hers to the nearest seat, leaving a trickle of water behind her.

“I thought you told me travelling was fun,” Em said, as we passed by the line of irate passengers.

“It is, can’t you see all these smiling faces?”

She looked at me dubiously. “Is mom leaking?”

“Yes.”

“Why is she leaking?”

“She isn’t wearing cotton socks.  Remember, you should always wear cotton socks when travelling.”

I sat next to Layce who said, “I think the socks were a poly blend.”

“Look on the bright side, the airline seats can be used as a flotation device.”

The Pink Shoe Diaries

Layce and I were watching “The Pink Panther.” Layce had the boxed set. I love Peter Sellers. So we were thinking “pink thoughts.”

“I need some new cross trainers,” I said, as I watched the movie over the toes of my old cross-trainers.

“You already have so many shoes,” Layce said, scooping up a handful of popcorn and watching Peter Sellers fall into the Seine.

“But I wear these ones all the time and they look grungy,” I complained. Cato bashed Inspector Clouseau with a lamp.

“You have to get rid a pair of shoes then,” Layce said.

“I will.” In our house to get something new requires getting rid of something old. It keeps the house streamlined.

“Okay. I really want your pink Converse,” Layce said.

“If I give them to you can I get the new trainers?”

“Maybe.” This was a standard negotiation ploy—don’t give in too easily.

“I have to think about the pink Converse though,” I countered. Clouseau’s boss cut his finger off with the cigar guillotine.

“What’s to think about? You never wear them.”

“They have sentimental value. I wore them with my pajamas at the GCLS conference and Karin Kallmaker put her pretty high heels next to my Converse and we took a picture. It was a special moment for me.”

Layce considered this. The movie ended with a car explosion.

“Let’s go upstairs and negotiate,” I said.

“Now?”

“Don’t be coy.” If I am anything I’m persistent. The time is right for new shoes.

I should have done some reconnoitering before we went into the closet, meaning I should have put some of my shoes in storage before trying to get a new pair. I have far too many shoes. They lined the closet wall and some were piled two deep. Layce had already made her point long before we walked into the closet.

“You have a lot of shoes,” she said, looking from her selection of shoes to mine.

I tried a new tactic. “But they all have different purposes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “For example?”

“These ones are for hiking through stream beds—my Soloman water trainers. And these are my skateboard shoes, and these are hiking, and dress boots, and snow boots, and gardening clogs, and around the house Crocs and winter around the house Crocs and the various pairs of Converse are so I can match and…”

She rolled her eyes.

“Some of these shoes have history and not all of it good.” I looked down at them sadly. They do remind me of things and I don’t wear them because of that.

“Histories?”

“Of my old life—the one I had before you and they make me sad.”

Layce put her arm around me. “Why don’t you get rid of the sad shoes and we’ll get you some new trainers.”

“And you can have the pink Converse and I’ll throw in these suede zip ups. I never wore them so they don’t have bad memories. They’ll look nice on you.”

“You’re sweet.”

“You’re sweeter and thanks for not making me feel weird.”

“You are weird, that’s what I like about you.”

Layce put on the pink Converse and slinked around like the Pink Panther, humming the theme song.

“And you think I’m weird,” I said under my breath.